


Voices in Our Heads

by BBCotaku, Maya_Zulf



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson, Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Depression, Evan and Jeremy constantly fuck up, Friendship, Ghost!J.D, Italics, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Multi, Slow To Update, Social Anxiety, Veronica is along for the ride, evan is bi, jeremy is bi, mental hang ups, mixed movie and musical canon, pure self-indulgence, the squip is a jerk, veronica is bi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBCotaku/pseuds/BBCotaku, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maya_Zulf/pseuds/Maya_Zulf
Summary: It was all meant to end after J.D Died.It was all meant to end after the truth was told.It was all meant to end after the SQUIP shut down.Westerburg was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to forget all the stupid decisions they’d made. No more killer boyfriends, no more make-believe friendships and no more shiny-happy-hiveminds. But bad decisions have a habit of making themselves at homeThere are voices in our heads and they are not the normal kind.





	1. Somebody Help Me: My Ex-Boyfriend is Haunting Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story was 100% Maya's idea so blame her for everything.  
> It is also 100% self-indulgent crap.  
> Takes place after the end of Be More Chill and Heathers and during the time skip in Dear Evan Hansen.
> 
> \--BBC
> 
> This is my first real fanfiction, please help me. Oh God, why did I do this?
> 
> \--Maya

J.D didn’t go away after he died.

The others did. Kurt, Ram, and Heather fucked off pretty quickly once the police got involved. J.D’s dramatic exit seemed to have been the kick-up-the-ass the police finally needed to realize that, hey, maybe three people killing themselves in the space of a week for seemingly unrelated reasons was a bit suspicious.

Thankfully for Veronica, the one thing J.D had proven to be absolute crap at was cleaning up after himself. Once the police actually started looking they found his fingerprints everywhere; on his two guns, his bullets and the bombs, everywhere.

In another massive stroke of good luck, no links were drawn to her, being popular really had its perks after all.Well, either that or it was a little too optimistic for her to think that the cops weren't just sitting around holding their dicks

Well, either that or it was a little too optimistic for her to think that the cops weren't just sitting around holding their dicks

Regardless, the only crime Veronica could now be considered guilty of --besides murder-- was lying to police and out of all the things she’d done over the last few months that was basically the equivalent of stealing a teacher's pen, she could deal with that for now.

Once the General shock settled Veronica found herself buried by a wave of condolences from people apologizing about J.D, about just how wrong they had been to ignore the red flags, how stupid they had been not to listen to her. Now she was thinking about it, her social life consisted mostly people apologizing.

Maybe that’s why J.D had stuck around; he was jealous that she’d gotten off scot free while he was remembered, not as some deep teenage revolutionary like he’d hoped but rather as the complete psychopath he was. It was just like J.D to have an ego about this kind of thing.

Or perhaps Veronica had just lost it and was imagining her dead ex-boyfriend as a representation of the guilt she wasn’t dealing with. Both seemed equally as likely. Well, no. Logically it was more of a 5%--95% situation but thinking of both options as being equally plausible helped her feel much better about her own mental state. Whatever kept the PTSD away.

Besides, despite the J.D-shaped devil on her shoulder things had, somehow, managed to get easier.

As the months moved on so did the citizens of Sherwood Ohio until eventually the horrific tragedy of The Westerburg Four was all but faded from people’s list of priorities, weighed down by a constant downpour their own of everyday problems—gloriously, mundane, everyday problems and Veronica couldn't help but find not having to worry about whether or not she’d arrive at school one day to find a smoking crater instead of a classroom extremely relaxing.

_I still say it’d be an improvement._

“Will you just fuck off?”

_You're talking out loud again._

Veronica tried not to look at J.D in the eye and instead kept her gaze locked on her bedroom ceiling.

It was way too early for this. Quickly she turned over in bed so she was face to face with the bloody and torn body of Jason Dean.

He looked, for lack of a better term, like a boy who had tried to blow himself up but only partly managed it. His abdomen and upper legs were a mess of tangled gut, viscera and charred flesh, a collection of soot-stained bones only just visible between the torn gaps of his jacket. He looked like a zombie, not a ghost as Heather, Kurt, and Ram had.

Veronica hated looking at her boyfriend, but alas J.D did not seem the same sentiment. He sat atop her bedside chest of drawers, what was left of his legs crossed, head propped up in his hands.

 _You’ve been fucking ecstatic to see that place burn to the ground, babe. Don’t lie to me_.

Veronica narrowed her eyes, her face a mask of pure and utter annoyance. “Go fuck yourself J.D.”

A smile twitched at the corner of J.D’s mouth. _I would, Veronica, but I don’t exactly have a dick, do I?_

“And whose fault was that?”

_Society’s._

Veronica held back a scream. She let her gaze wander from his eyes to the strips of sunlight glinting through her curtains. She hadn’t heard her mom leave for work yet, which meant it was probably sometime around six o’clock.

Four hours of sleep, a new record.

Veronica sat up gingerly, the back of her head pulsating in protest. Her eyes itched and she couldn't help but wince as she ran her fingers through her hair to find it a knotted, greasy mess. Swinging herself out of bed Veronica caught sight of herself in her vanity mirror. She looked almost as bad as J.D, minus the blood, and the ash, and the general air of douchebaggery. Okay, on second thought she looked nothing like J.D.

“Heather would’ve killed me if she’d seen me like this.”

_Which one?_

“If, she’d seen me like this,” Veronica repeated through clenched teeth.

J.D actually had the audacity to laugh. _Right, right. My mistake._ He leaned his back against the wall, dark eyes closed. _Duke would still probably kill you though._

“Yeah, well it’s a good thing I don’t give a shit about her then, isn’t it?” Veronica snapped, waving her hand dismissively in his direction as she made her way across the room and opened her closet. “I’m gonna shower, you stay there,” she commanded as she pulled her blouse and skirt off their hanger.

J.D pouted, his head cocked to one side. _Do I have to?_ he asked, feigning innocence. He sighed heavily, _sometimes I just miss my Dead Girl Walking._

Veronica flinched but managed to keep her mouth shut as she left the room. She didn’t utter so much as a breath until she reached the bathroom, grabbed a towel, crumbled it into a ball and screamed into it. Twice. She felt as though someone had turned a tap in her chest, letting an explosion of pressure rush free of the tension that imprisoned it.

“I’m alright,” she told the towel, the thread-like fibers brushing gently against her mouth. “I’m alright,” she said again as she lifted her head from its makeshift pillow. She addressed the mirror this time and her reflection did the same, her mouth pulling into an uneasy smile.

Just smiling was enough to improve a person’s mood. The action of raising the corners of the mouth triggered a dose of dopamine to be released within the brain, as did yawning (granted Veronica had learned that from a Buzzfeed article so she wasn't quite sure if it was true or not).

For a moment Veronica genuinely considered not showering, thought of the heatwave that had settled across Sherwood and decided against it. It wasn’t worth the risk anyway.

She made sure to lock the bathroom door before getting undressed, though the action didn't offer her much in terms of comfort. After all, what use is a lock against a ghost? She glanced at her watch, 6:30, fuck. Quickly Veronica stripped out of her pajamas and into the shower. Her back tensed as she shoved her head under the still freezing water, the sudden drop in temperature making it feel as though all the blood in her body had rushed to her eyelids, heat pulsing behind her eyes. It would be too late to dry her hair but wet hair for half an hour was much better than seven hours of grease.

Veronica turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, ten minutes flowing neatly down the drain. Once she was dressed she looked in the mirror again. Her hair stuck limply to the sides of her faces staining the neckline of her shirt with water. She looked...better. Disheveled enough for Heather to have strung her up like a pig had she still been alive, but nice enough for people to take no notice.

Her hand reached for the small orange pill bottle left on the side of the sink. Turning on the tap she placed two tablets between her teeth, leaned over and cupped water into her mouth.

She, clearing her throat, took a final deep breath, forced another smile on her face and turned to the door only to find herself, once again, face to face with J.D.

_I missed you._

Veronica didn’t bother replying. Rather she grit her teeth, and pushed through him, moving into the kitchen where her father sat waiting for her.

“Veronica,” her Dad called from the kitchen table, his face hidden behind his newspaper, “I made you some breakfast.” He pointed to a plate of toast set in front Veronica’s usual spot, not looking up.

“Thanks,” She smiled, picking up one of the slices and taking a large bite.

“Hey, take a break Veronica,” her dad suggested, more to the paper than to anyone else. “Sit down.”

Veronica hesitated and sank down into her seat. She spied J.D out the corner of her eye, wondering out of the bathroom, a teeth-grindingly-annoying smirk on his face.

“So, what's the first day of school with medication like so far?” Her father asked. J.D stood over his shoulder mouthing along with the words. Had the circumstances been different Veronica probably would have laughed. Not today. Now she just glared.

“Okay, I guess. It's only been a few days so they're probably not in my system yet” she took a bite of toast before continuing “give me a week or two and I’ll be singing from the rooftops I’m sure.”

Her father didn't look up from his paper. “That’s good, honey.” His eyes moved agonizingly slowly across the page. “Somebody tell me why I read these damn tabloids.”

Veronica felt a hint of a smile rise on her lips. “Because you’re an idiot, dad.”

“Oh yeah.”

At least she still had this, small moments of normalcy. He hadn’t managed to steal that from her, not yet anyway.

Veronica felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She clicked the phone open with her free hand and took another bite of toast with the other.

“Oh, great breakfast but,” she stood up, lifting her bag from the back of the chair and shoved the remaining slice of toast into her mouth,” I gotta motor, Mackie’s coming to pick me up.”

“Have a good day, sweetheart,” her dad smiled before he looked back down at his newspaper.

“I'll try.”

\---

One of the first things Heather Mcnamara did after J.D’s death was learn to drive. Perhaps she was tired of taking the bus, perhaps almost dying was enough motivation to make her finally get off her ass and pass her test. Regardless of reason Veronica no longer had to settle for J.D as her only source of morning company and Heather, forever, had a ride. Which suited them both pretty damn well if Veronica did say so herself.

“Morning, Mackie,” Veronica said as she tugged open the passenger-side door of Heather’s acid-yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

“Morning, Ronnie!” Heather shot her a wide smile. “How was the weekend?”

“Full of homework, yours?”

“Alright, me and Martha ended up going window shopping and we found this shirt and we were both like, Veronica would look so good in this--”

Veronica quirked her brow. “You still mad I bailed?”

“What? No!” Heather winked cheekily. “Okay, like, maybe a little. But you'll be happy to know we had plenty of fun without you.”

“Thrilled,” Veronica replied, not necessarily out of malice. Her new meds had already started to make her drowsy, but not necessarily happy. J.D said they made her grouchy and she was half-tempted to agree. Too grouchy to do anything on Saturday, let alone subject her two best friends to her bad temper. Back in the real world, Veronica rubbed her eyes with her fists, a deep yawn erupting from her mouth.

“Bad night?” Mackie asked. She turned her head to face Veronica sending a sudden pang of panic down her friend’s spine.

“Yeah. Jesus, Mackie, eyes on the road.”

Heather’s head snapped forward again, her back straight. “Okay, okay! Jeez, Ronnie, I can drive a car, relax.” She tapped her French-tipped nails against the steering wheel as though to emphasize her point. “I'm a good driver.”

“You're proof that the Dunning-Kruger effect is still alive and well,” Veronica grumbled. She cupped her mouth, stifling another yawn. It seemed medication plus a bad night’s sleep made for quite the annoying morning.

“The what?”

“These people, Dunning and Kruger, did a test where they found that new driver's always think they're great drivers even if they're shit.”

“But I am a good driver--”

“Brake!”

Heather stamped her foot down causing the beetle to skid screeching halt, mere millimeters from a red light. Veronica fixed her with a sharp look, the sound of J.D laughter from the back seat filling her ears.

“You were saying?” she asked slyly.

Heather hunched her shoulders, her lips pursed into a childish pout. “I feel so attacked right now.”

“Well, I--” Veronica was cut off by yet another yawn. “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Heather laughed, no longer able to keep up her angry facade. “Jeez, are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, just tired, like I said,” Veronica shrugged. “I had a bad night.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah.”

Heather winced, her foot gently pushing down on the accelerator as the traffic lights flashed for her to go. “Mind me asking what they were about?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you tell me anyway?”

Veronica thought for a moment. She glanced to J.D through the rear-view mirror and wondered how Heather would feel knowing someone was getting blood on her upholstery. She hadn't told anyone about him yet, not her parents, her therapist, not Martha and certainly not Mackie.It would make them think her crazy and while she was, she didn't have time, nor the strength to deal with them knowing it. “No, it was a dumb nightmare.”

“What? Did you dream you were, like, in your underwear in public or something?”

Ha! I wish, Veronica thought with a grimace. She’d pay good money to have normal-people-nightmares again. She wracked her brain for something plausible, yet stupid. “Ducks,” she said. “I was being hunted by an army of ducks.”

Heather burst out laughing. “Oh god! Really? That’s a nightmare for you?”

“I did say it was dumb.”

“Your teeth weren’t like, falling out or anything?”

“Nope.”

“No offense, but your nightmares are stupid.”

Veronica couldn’t help but laugh at Mackie’s bluntness. “What do you have nightmares about then?”

“Well.” Mackie hesitated, turning in her seat as though she was about to face Veronica again before remembering just how definitely-illegal that was. “I once had a dream that I’d fallen into this sea of... I don’t know what it was, maybe tar? And I was trying to swim somewhere but like it was like I was stuck in place drowning.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Yeah.” Silence hung in the air for a moment.

 _Why don’t you tell her your actual nightmare?_ J.D asked. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of Veronica’s seat, no doubt covering it with soot and blood.

For a second Veronica was tempted to. She certainly could spill every detail about her nightmare; about being trapped in the closet, choking as a bedsheet hooked itself around her neck and dragged her off the ground as J.D banged furiously against the door. But on second thought it would take way too much explaining to be worth the petty victory.

“Oh, so me and Martha went to get frozen yogurt-” Mackie started up again, seemingly unphased. People were good at that, it was something Veronica had noticed since the whole...incident. People just loved to abandon anything that was even remotely difficult to deal with. Well, everyone except her at least. Whatever the phantom J.D was made it extremely difficult.

After what felt like an eternity of near death experiences the car finally came to an uneasy stop in the Westerberg high parking lot and Veronica could finally breathe.

“...and then she fell backwards and the heel just snapped.”

“Damn, was she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Martha was fine but like, aren’t these shoes meant to be walked in?”

“Really, I always thought they were medieval torture devices.” The pair pushed their way through the stream of students moving in both directions in and out of the school. Veronica looked down at her watch, “hey, I gotta go. Mr. Saul will string me up on a hook if I'm late again.”

Mackie wrinkled her nose, her lips twisted into a harsh grimace. “Ew, I forgot you've got history first thing.” She patted Veronica’s shoulder, a small sigh escaping her mouth. “Good luck, Ronnie.”

“I'll need it,” Veronica forced a smile. She held her thumb and forefinger in the shape of an ‘O’ as she walked away. As she turned to corner out of Heather’s view Veronica let the smile fall. “Okay, okay, okay,” she muttered, leaning back against a locker. She rubbed her face with her palms, “Okay, okay, o-kay.” Her mouth was dry, had that been one of the side effects?

_God, Ronnie. You're a fucking wreck._

“I'm well aware.” Veronica kneed her eyes against the back of her hands. What had been the side effects?

“Um. Excuse me?”

Restlessness, shaking, dry mouth, sleeplessness, drowsiness,

“Ack--um. Shit. Um. Hey?”

headaches, stomach aches, nausea, flu symptoms, suicide,

“Excuse me! I'm having trouble with my locker and…ugh.”

who the fuck’s idea was it to make one of the side effects of antidepressants suicide? That seemed kinda pointless, not to mention redundant.

Veronica felt someone tap her shoulder.

_Hey, babe. Someone’s trying to talk to you._

“What?” Veronica’s head snapped the side to meet the gaze of a pale, dark-haired boy.

“Um.” The boy made a stuttered squeak in reply. He shied back from her, shoulders round his ears. “I'm new here and I'm having…” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of an adjacent locker “...I can't get it open.”

“Oh,” Veronica pried her hands from her face. “Oh, right. Yeah, they're a bitch, which one’s yours?”

J.D quirked his brow. _What happened to not being late?_

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Locker!” Veronica grabbed the boy’s lock, twisting the combination three times before gesturing for him to enter the code. “You have to turn it three times to reset it before you enter in the numbers--oh, and give it a twist after you lock it again. Sometimes it gets stuck on the last number and doesn't lock properly and Kurt a--” she caught herself as J.D snickered by her shoulder “--some asshole'll break into it and glitter bomb your stuff.”

“Yikes.” The boy bit his lip, twisting in his code. “Good to know jerks never...really...change…” the lock clicked open.

Veronica laughed, a loud snorting laugh the brought a twinge of a smile to the new-boy’s face. “Yeah, they don't really, do they?”

“Yeah. Um.” The boy stuck out a stiff hand. “Jeremy Heere.”

“As in you are Jeremy and you are here or--”

Jeremy’s smile wavered. “H-e-e-r-e. I know, what kind of loser has an adjective for a last name?”

“I mean, technically it's an adverb.” Veronica could see J.D fixing her with raised eyebrows over the kid’s shoulder, his arms crossed impatiently over his chest. “I'm Sawyer, by the way. Veronica Sawyer.”

Jeremy tucked his unshaken hand into the pocket of his jeans. “As in Thomas?”

“As in Veronica.”

You're _ignoring me for this idiot? I'm offended, Ronnie._ J.D sighed, leaning heavily against the locker, picking at the skin around his fingers. He looked more bored than anything.

Veronica cleared her throat. “I gotta go--”

“Oh yeah,” Jeremy whirled around, almost hitting her with his bag. “Fuck, I'm gonna be late. Um...fuck!” He turned back and Veronica had to step back to avoid getting slapped. “Thanks for the help?” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Welcome. Oh, someone wrote BOYF on your bag.”

Jeremy let out a loud groan. “I know. I can't get it off.”

“You tried rubbing alcohol?” Veronica asked, peeking round to peer the blocky if slightly faded letters.

“Yep. I'm thinking of just getting a new bag.”

“What does BOYF even mean?”

Jeremy was quiet for a  second as he tucked his social studies textbook under his arm. “It’s kinda a long story, I don't think you'd really be interested.”

 _Tic Toc Veronica,_ J.D tapped his wrist.

“Shut up.”

“What?” Jeremy stared at her, his eyebrows pulled tightly together.

“What?” Veronica echoed. “Uh, gotta go, see you around Jeremy Heere.”

“See you around Veronica Sawyer.”

\---

Veronica arrived at her American History class with two minutes to spare. Quite the feat on her part. She threw herself down into her seat and rubbed her temples, eyes fixed on J.D. She opened her mouth as though she was about to speak but quickly closed it before her words had time to form, instead choosing to pull out a notepad and pen from her backpack. The notepad had once acted as her diary, now it acted as one-half of a chat log.

 _Would it kill you to keep your mouth shut for five, FUCKING, minutes?!_ She wrote, being careful to hide most of the words with her free hand.

J.D shrugged, leaning on hand on her desk as he read over her shoulder. _I'm kinda already dead, aren't I?_ He said with a roll of his eyes. _Besides you were the one worrying about being late._

Veronica clenched her jaw. _You know what I mean._

 _And whatever happened to not hanging around with the new kids anymore?_ J.D continued, prodding her in the shoulder. _I thought you’d sworn off us._

 _I have,_ Veronica wrote, _he needed a hand. I helped him. Besides, I highly doubt he’s crazy enough to pull the shit you did._

 _Don’t judge a book by its cover, Ronnie._ J.D wandered round the edge of Veronica’s desk. He leaned down beside it, his elbows resting against the edge of the table.

_You’d think I’d have learned my lesson with you._

_You love me and you know it._

_I hate you._

J.D narrowed his eyes. _You don’t mean_ that, he stated coolly. _Not really_

He was right, but there was no way in hell Veronica was going to let him know that. _Whatever,_ she finished. She tapped her pen sharply against the paper, looking from J.D to the front of the class. Someone, a fresh-faced boy, was standing at the front of the room.

 _Oh, look, another one._ J.D beamed from ear to ear. _It must be my birthday._

Veronica--not for the first time-- wished she could punch him. Though, again, he was right. Westerburg rarely got new students, let alone two in one day.

This second new-kid stood stiffly at the front of the class, his eyes scanning the sea of desks stretched out before him. His back was so hunched that at a first glance he looked almost doubled over in pain, his blonde hair stuck limply to his forehead by a thin layer of sweat.

 _Fucking hell, he looks like he’s gonna pass out,_ J.D mumbled, his form sinking lower as he rested his chin on the table edge.

Veronica didn’t bother reply, the boy looked familiar and she couldn't quite place how. He didn’t introduce himself to the class or even speak, he just stood there curling the hem of his shirt between his fingers. Was he looking for a place to sit?  The idea made Veronica frown, he shouldn’t be having this much trouble there were four empty seats to choose from and god knows no one was going to turn up to claim them.

The boy took a slow step forward before darting across the room as quickly as he could, pausing for a moment directly in front of Veronica. Which made sense, after all, she was sat directly between two empty chairs. He rubbed his nose shakily on the back of his hand, looking from one desk to the other. He first looked to the one on Veronica’s left first, the tabletop a collage of sharpie-scrawl.

_Murderer._

_Burn in hell._

_Psycho._

_Glad u died._

He visibly winced and looked to the desk on the right. It was covered in messages as well, though of a completely different kind.

_Miss you._

_Wish I could have known you._

_RIP beautiful._

The boy looked back and forth a few times before settling into Heather’s old desk. He sat at the edge of his seat, the chair pushed as far back from the actual desk as he could manage as though he was scared to touch it.

Veronica stared at him, she couldn't help it. She’d seen him somewhere before, she just couldn't place it.

Mr. Saul finally entered the classroom, right on the bell.

“Good morning, class,” he droned out his standard greeting, turning to face the blackboard at the closest opportunity.

Veronica blocked him out fairly quickly, choosing to focus her attention on the annoying feeling of recognition at the back of her mind over the key players of the American Civil War.

 _It’s like I can see the cogs in your brain,_ J.D quipped, looking up at her.

Veronica turned to a fresh page in her diary before writing again. _You know him?_ She asked.

_I do._

_And are you going to tell me?_

J.D shrugged. _Guess._

Veronica let out a loud groan, her stomach twisted as she realized the boy could hear her. He was looking at her now, his eyebrows raised, probably in wonder as to why a weird girl was staring at him. Veronica cleared her throat and started to doodle random shapes in the margin of the page, waiting until she was sure the boy had averted his gaze before replying.

_Have I met him before?_

J.D shook his head. _colder._

_Have you met him before?_

_Ice cold._

_Is he famous for something?_

_Warmer._

_Actor?_

_Colder._

_Musician?_

_Colder._

_Artist?_

_Sub-zero._

Veronica shot him a sour look, glaring daggers. _Are you fucking with me?_

_Colder than Heather’s heart._

_I hate you._ Veronica placed the end of her pen between her teeth. She looked at the boy out the corner of her eye. Mr. Saul hadn’t even bothered to introduce him, it was like he couldn't even see him. A sudden panic spiked her chest.

 _Can everyone else see him?_ She wrote quickly.

 _No, he's a manifestation of all your social anxieties. Yeah, Veronica, he's real. J_.D rolled his eyes. _Try again._

Veronica sucked at her pen, her lips drawn into a thin, straight line. _He looks kinda awkward, is he a blogger?_

_Warmer._

_Youtuber?_

_Think more short-term._

Veronica paused thoughtfully for a moment. _Facebook?_

_You’re boiling._

Veronica turned her head to look at the new kid again, gnawing on her pen.

“The Connor Project--uh!” Her breath caught in her throat as the boy’s head snapped to face her, his eyes wide.

She’d spoken out loud again.

 


	2. Somebody Help me: I Fell out of a Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy, that's a lot of people...Who's ready for 3500 words of Evan freaking out?  
> Also special thanks to my friend Levi for helping me edit!   
> \--BBC
> 
> Where the hell did all you people come from?  
> How'd we do with writing Evan?  
> \--Maya

 Connor didn't go away after he died. 

No. That was a lie. He did go away. He went away lots, but always came back sooner than later. He didn't often stay very long either, no more than a few minutes max and he rarely talked. 

Yeah, he said stuff sometimes. Weird stuff. Stuff about falling and emails and pot. 

He didn't talk this time though. Just stood in the corner of Evan’s bedroom. Lip buttoned. Hair tangled. Eyes fixed. They'd been having a staring contest, he and Evan. Connor was winning but Evan had a sneaking suspicion he’d been cheating. He took a deep breath and pulled the covers over his head, ending the game.

He should get up. People would think he was a slob if he turned up late and he should avoid any bad first impressions. Evan had made enough of those to last a lifetime. Anymore would honestly be overkill at this point. On the other hand, if he just stayed in bed he wouldn't need to meet anyone. There couldn’t be any bad first impressions if he never made any.

No, he needed to get up. All this had been his idea, it wasn't fair on--

“Evan?” Speak of the devil. “Evan, are you awake?”

He kept his mouth shut. 

“Evan?” He heard the door to his bedroom creak open. “Honey, up you get. Don't want to be late on your first day, right?” 

Evan could hear the smile on his mother’s face. Small. Sweet. Not what he deserved. 

“I'm--” he pulled the covers away from his eyes “I’m awake.” The words came out too quickly, more a soup of vague sounds than words.

His mom’s smile was wider than he’d expected. 

“Good, get up soon.” Her eyes traveled to the small backpack propped up next to his door, picking it up with a small grunt. “You made sure to pack everything you’ll need last night?” 

Evan shrugged, pulling his quilt up around his chin. Nothing he said would stop her from searching through it for herself. His mom tugged at the zipper, giving the bag’s content a long stare, her eyes flicking from item to item. Pencils, pens, dog-eared textbooks. She reached inside and pulled out a pill bottle. 

“You alright for refills?” 

Evan sank further down his bed. “Yep.”

“You sure? I could always pick some up on my way home.” 

“N-no. You don't have to do that,  _ I'mtotallyfineIpromise. _ ” 

Pause. 

“If you say so.” She dropped the bag to the ground with a thud, propping it up neatly in its place. “Don't be afraid to take your emergency ones if you get too nervous. I know you said you can't concentrate if you take them at school, but better safe than sorry.” 

“Yeah. I won't. Don’t worry.” 

“Evan.” 

He pulled back the covers again to find his mother at his bedside, almost as though she’d teleported across the room. It made him jump and almost dive back under his covers again like a rabbit in its burrow. 

“Can I get a hug before I leave?” She asked, settling herself down on the edge of his bed. 

_ No, then you’ll see I didn't get changed last night and think I'm weird for sleeping in my clothes.  _ Evan sat up slowly. He reached his arms out carefully so as to keep as much of the quilt covering his body as possible. It fell off the moment his mom leaned forward to wrap her arms around him. 

“We never could get you to wear PJs,” she sighed, plucking at the shoulder of his hoodie. She didn't necessarily look disappointed. More amused than anything. 

Evan felt his face turn read. “S-sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn't...I was really tired...it wasn't like I couldn't...be bothered…” That was a lie. He couldn't be bothered to change. He didn't want to. He just wanted to lay in bed. 

“It's okay, don't worry.” His mom stood up, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Just get changed before you go to school, alright?” 

Evan nodded, scrunching his nose as his mom planted a kiss on his forehead. 

“See you tonight, sweetie.”

“See you.” 

Evan waited until he heard the front door slam before sinking back down into bed. Connor was back in the corner. 

“What are you doing?” Evan asked. 

He said nothing in reply. It was going to be a quite day. 

Evan’s eyes drifted to the  _ Popeye  _ alarm clock left haphazardly on his bedside table. His dad had bought it for him a handful of birthdays ago. He'd said something about Evan more needing boy’s toys, something about over-reliance on female role models being bad for his development. Never mind the fact that he was more than happy to go without so much as emailing his own son for months on end.  

According to Popeye, the last bus for school would be arriving in forty minutes. 

Evan really needed to get up. 

Evan didn't move. 

Thirty. 

Twenty-five. 

Fifteen. 

Evan kicked off his quilt with a scowl. He could lie and send an email. Tell the teachers he was sick and just stay in bed all day, but that would only rouse suspicion and God knew that was the last thing he needed right now. Besides, he’d promised himself he’d stop lying. Whether or not that promise would prove to be just another lie was still yet to be seen. 

He sat up, suddenly painfully aware of the nerves that had been brewing in his stomach for a solid month and a half, bubbling away and threatening to overflow. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, catching himself in the mirror that acted as his closet door.

He looked like he always did; a nervous wreck. 

He paused, wondering if making himself look even halfway presentable would count as a lie. He glanced at Connor, again, taking in his appearance; gray hoodie, unwashed jeans.

He decided he’d make an exception.

He got ready in record time; he showered, got dressed, washed his face, cleaned his teeth and combed his hair all in the span of about five minutes. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror and, for a second, he thought he looked good. His hair was neatly combed to the side, and he still had a little bit of a tan from his summer spent at the national park. He’d even managed to dig out his one combination of clothes that looked somewhat presentable; a blue polo shirt and khakis.

Then that moment passed and every flaw in his stupid face came into view. Every zit. Every crease. Every wrinkle and worry. 

Everything was back to normal. 

He headed into the kitchen where Connor was waiting. Still standing in silence, just staring at him from his spot by the stove. Evan ignored him and started spooning instant coffee into a mug. He wasn’t a fan of coffee and neither was his stomach, but wasn't a fan being tired either, so he compromised by filling his mug with enough sugar to kill a small bear. 

He sat at the table. Sipped at his syrup with some coffee in it. Took a deep breath. Picked up his phone. Opened notes and began to type.

_ Dear Evan Hansen, _

_ Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why: _

_ It’s a new start. No one knows who you are, well, I mean they might. You were basically the figurehead of a social media movement about two months ago but I mean, it’s not like people will remember or anything. If they do you just have to tell them to go away, but then they’ll just think you’re a dick. Maybe just thank them? _

_ No, that’s worse, way worse. _

_ “Thank you.” _

_ Thank you for what? For reminding me of the worse things I’ve ever done?  _

_ No, don’t do that. You just have to relax, don’t worry about lying, or that your hands are sweaty because they WILL be sweaty, that's just a fact so just don’t touch anyone.  _

_ Well, then I guess they might want to shake hands but I mean, who shakes hands anymore? Just wipe your hands on your shirt. Nevermind if they think you're gross, and they won't even be that sweaty anyway, they never really are, so just remember that and try not to think about it and you’ll be fine.  _

_ Just don’t think. Just say, “hey, nice to meet you, I’m Evan Hansen,” no, don’t say that just say: “Hi, I’m Evan.” _

_ Don't shake their hand and just… win them over with your...great personality.  _

_ And just don’t make stuff up. That never goes well. Just tell the truth. If they ask about Connor just, just brush it off, he’s not important, he’s behind you now. _

Then why am I still here?

_ Yup, it’s all over now! No more Connor. No more Murphys. No more Connor Project. No more...no more Zoe. _

_ Yeah, no more Zoe. It’s better this way anyway, it’s not like your relationship was healthy or anything. I mean she didn’t even make you THAT happy did she? Just forget about her. It'll be easy, right? Well no, that’s kinda bad. Don't  forget about Zoe. Just try not to think about her, you can totally do that.  _

_ So, yeah you’ll be fine. Just don’t think about your sweaty hands or Zoe or Connor or Jared. Don't shake hands and just don’t get recognized. You can do that. _

_ Sincerely, Me.  _

Evan deleted the letter as soon as he signed it. He didn't have to show them to his therapist anymore. Technically, he didn't even have to write them anymore. For some odd reason though he couldn't help but find comfort in the act; it allowed him to scream without frightening anyone and that was always a good thing.

He chugged the last of his coffee, grabbed his bag and came to a stop in front of the front door. He held his key against the lock, lips drawn into a tight line. He just needed to step outside. Unlock the door. Lift his foot. Step outside. 

Evan didn't move. 

His jaw clenched, a sharp heat working its way up the back of his neck. The walls of the hall pushed against his back, a phantom lump clutching his throat, butterflies flapping rabid in his stomach. He could sense someone on the opposite side of the door. A man with a knife. A monster. A mob ready to act on those threats the Murphy’s received after the “suicide note” was leaked. 

He could hear the hiss of the bus as it rounded the corner. He had perhaps thirty seconds to get out there. Get on the bus. Get to school. New school. New start. New Evan. A confident, kind, honest Evan. 

He moved quickly, ripping open the door and hurtling down the driveway, his heart jumping in his chest. Couldn't breathe. His hair was in his eyes. 

The bus was at the stop, already ready to move on when Evan was only halfway down the street. 

“W-wait!” He yelled, waving frantically. His limbs were too long. He looked too lanky. Like a spider. The driver was laughing at him. Everyone was laughing. 

The bus was empty as he stumbled on board. The driver looked at Evan disapprovingly out the corner of his eye as he scrambled to the back of the bus. He didn't laugh, not audibly at least. That was good. 

Evan slipped into a seat two rows from the back, pushing himself as close to the window as he could manage. He rubbed his hands nervously against his knees as the bus hissed into motion, his stomach knotting uneasily. 

He counted the stops in his head, watching the slow filter of teens--some recognizable, some not--gradually fill the bus, mentally preparing himself for the sixth stop. For what came next. 

He sank low in his seat when the bus slowed and  Zoe Murphy stepped onto the bus. She didn't even look at him. Just slipped into a free space at the front, her guitar case in tow. She fiddled with the over-sized case for a minute, propping it up between her legs. 

A little over a month ago Zoe would have sat down with him. Smiled. Said hello. Good morning. Held his hand. Kissed his cheek.

Evan mentally slapped himself. 

Thinking like that made it sound like she was doing something wrong. That all this was somehow her fault. It was his fault. He’d been to one to lie. He’d been the one to build their relationship on a complete fabrication. He'd been the one to approach her. He’d been the one to kiss her. He'd been the one to hurt her. Besides. Ignoring him was a mercy compared to what else she could have done. She could have told everyone. Could have made a post on The Connor Project page and told everyone. 

She was being nice. 

Everyone knew they had argued. People noticed when a couple stopped hanging out. But they didn't know why. Thank God. No one had asked Evan what had happened and he hoped to keep it that way. 

_ Dude, stop staring at my sister. You fucking creep.  _

He kept staring for a long while before looking up to stretch his sore neck just in time to meet eyes with Jared Kleinman.  The other boy stopped in his tracks and Evan knew he couldn't ignore him.Jared, said nothing, like Zoe. But unlike Zoe, he smiled. To a normal person, it would look like a normal, polite smile. Evan knew, though, that it was anything but. It was a grin: A sharp and wicked, grin. The grin of a man who was watching Rome burn and would brag about starting the fire.  

No. That was another lie. 

Evan turned back to the graffiti and tried not to shudder. He wasn't upset by the horrid grin, because, he knew deep down that it wasn't really evil. He could see the tiniest twinkle in Jared’s eye, the way the corners of his mouth twitched, and the way his eyebrows bunched. He could see the hint of pity hidden underneath it all.  Evan could deal with silence and cruelty, he could not deal with pity.

\---

Most of the students got off the bus when it reached Evan’s old school, but he stayed put, watching as an unfamiliar neighborhood replaced his hometown. 

Evan had only been to Sherwood once and that had been to look around the school with his mom. Despite the fact that it had been Evan’s idea to change schools, his mom had been the excited one. 

“Oh, look at the classrooms, Honey. Aren't they cute?” She’d said, giving his shoulders a soft squeeze. She'd ooh-ed and ah-ed at everything from the ancient computer labs to the stale-smelling cafeteria. 

As he edged his way through the front entrance of the school Evan did not oo, nor ah, but rather kept his mouth firmly shut to keep himself from vomiting. He fished in his pocket for a pen, frowning as he went to scratch under his cast but found nothing more than bare skin. 

Evan’s first stop was the front desk; a tiny office half the size of his bedroom, manned by a woman who dressed like she hadn't quite got over the eighties. 

“Can I help you?” She asked, tapping long nails against her keyboard. 

“ _ I’mEvanHansenI'mnew _ .” The words came out as a jumble of noise. 

The woman cocked her head. “Excuse me?”  

Evan felt himself blush and bunched the hem of his shirt between his fingers. “Evan Hansen.”

A smile light up the woman’s face. “Oh, you’re our other new kid.” Her nails went back to tapping, eyes flicking across her computer screen. 

“O-other new kid?” Evan croaked. His mouth was dry. 

“A junior,” the woman explained as her printer spat out Evan’s timetable and school map. “We had a few…” she twisted her lip uncertainly for a moment “...places open up recently.” 

Evan swallowed hard. “Oh?” 

The woman nodded, handing him a small stack of paper. “Your locker number is two-six-nine, just down the hall to your left, your code is written on your timetable.” 

“Th-thank you.”

“Have a nice day.” 

“The best day!” The words left Evan’s mouth far louder than he’d intended. “I mean...people say that you should be positive  _ andImean _ ….” the rest of his sentence caught in Evan’s throat as he bowed his head. “Sorry.”

The woman waved her hand as though to waft away his apology. “No need to apologize for being nervous. Coming to a new school as a senior can be tough.”

“Heh...uh…” Evan rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. “Yeah...um…” with that Evan scarpered back out into the hallway, weaving his way awkwardly in the direction of his locker. 

\---

Connor was already waiting for Evan at his history class. He leaned against the back wall, his hood lifted over his head.

Most of the class had already made their way inside, leaving Evan with four seats to choose from. The weird thing was each of the empty desks was covered in graffiti, a collage of phrases in a rainbow of handwriting and color. He moved over to the closest desk and took a better look at the words scribbled all over it.

_ Glad you died! _

Evan immediately turned to the next only to find similar, if less hostile statements.

_ RIP Beautiful. _

Were the rest of the desks covers in messages like this? What happened? The words made it sound like some kind of mass suicide. The thought made Evan’s stomach flip.

Evan shook his head. He didn't have time to think about stuff like that. He sat down in the seat with the kinder graffiti. He tried to smile at the girl sitting next to him, but only managed what felt like a grimace when he saw her scribbling in a notebook. 

 

He turned back to his desk as the teacher walked in, not bothering to do so much as acknowledge Evan’s existence He didn't mind. He really didn't want to have to stand up and introduce himself anyway. Evan took one of his own notebooks as the teacher, Mr. Saul actually began teaching his students. As he began writing Evan  felt suddenly aware that someone, somewhere, was staring at him. He quickly glanced in their direction and briefly locked eyes with the girl next to him as she looked back down at her own notebook, still scribbling.

Panic rose in Evan’s gut. 

Why was she staring at him? Was there something on his face? In his teeth? Did he stink? Did she recognize him? Please God, don't let her recognize him! He could feel her staring at him again, her eyes drilling into him. Evan gripped his pen tightly, his hands were definitely sweaty now. What was she even doing? He'd not even been in class for twenty minutes yet and he'd already done something wrong.

“The Connor Project.” the girl barely whispered it, but Evan flinched as if she’d screamed it at him. The world froze. Evan clenched his jaw so hard it cracked.

 

_ No,  _ the word erupted into Evan’s mind.  _ No no no no no no no nonononononono.  _ Not again, not now, not here.  _ No no no no no no. _

He needed to get out. This wasn't how things were supposed to work. He was supposed to forget about everything. People would start asking him questions. About Connor. About the orchard and the project. He'd have to start lying again.

_ Take a breath. _

Evan breathed in and out best he could. He needed to calm down. He clenched his fists even tighter, causing his nails to dig into his palms. He was going to vomit. He glanced at the girl again, she was staring intently at her notebook, Connor was reading over her shoulder. What could he see? Evan leaned over just enough to see the page. 

_ Can everyone else see him? _

Evan felt his stomach drop through the floor. What did she mean “can everyone else see him?” What did that even mean?! He quickly turned back to his own desk before the girl could notice he was watching. His heart was hammering. They all knew. They all knew who he was. They all knew what he had done. The girl knew. She knew everything. 

God, what was going on?

***

As soon as the bell ran Evan dashed out of his chair and down the hall before anyone could stop him. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he needed to get there. 

He glanced around frantically for any source of familiarity, but in a new school, in a new town familiarity was practically impossible. 

His legs eventually lead him to the bathroom,  his whole body was a-buzz with nerves as he dashed through the door, slamming it shut behind him and leaning heavily against it.  He took few more deep breaths as he tried to steady himself. He blinked and allowed his clouded vision to clear as he locked eyes with a boy standing by the sink. 

The boy was tall and held a small bottle in his left hand and an eyedropper dripping red liquid into his open mouth with another. He looked at Evan through the mirror, his eyes wide.

It was as though someone had set off warning lights in Evan’s head. Every inch of him screamed that something was wrong and he felt bile burn his throat. 

The boy quick lowered the eyedropper, turning round to face Evan, his face as red as the liquid. “Um…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. “I know this looks really fucking weird…”

For a moment neither boy dared to do so much as move. After what felt like an eternity Evan’s body decided to break the tension.

Pushing the boy to the side Evan leant over the sink and, finally, threw up.

 

 


	3. Somebody Help Me: There's a Chip in my Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates! Blame Shamchat.  
> (Also sorry for the zalgo text, but we need to differentiate the SQUIP from the maybe-ghosts.)
> 
> \--BBC.
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updates! Blame College. 
> 
> \--Maya.

The SQUIP didn't go away after it...died?

No, Jeremy decided. In order to die you first needed to have a soul, something the SQUIP had proven it didn't have on more than one occasion. Disconnected was the better word; still at the controls but without the key to use them.

You'̛r͘e ̶d̴i̵sgust͠i͜ng̵

Jeremy ignored the voice in his head, tapping the side of his laptop screen. New house, new state, same shitty internet connection. Maybe it was him, maybe technology just fell apart when he was around.

“Jeremy?” His dad rapped his knuckles against his bedroom door, only just giving Jeremy enough time to do his belt back up before coming in.

“Yeah?” Jeremy flicked his laptop shut, looking up to meet his dad’s eye. He still couldn't quite get used to the sight of him wearing pants.

“Just making sure you're awake, kiddo.” Mr. Heere leaned against the door frame, hesitant. “You nervous?” He asked after a moment’s silence.

“Nope.”

You̕ ̸şhou̸l͘d be̷

“Not at all,” Jeremy added, louder this time. “What about you? New job, right?”

Mr. Heere winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I've been trying not to think about it.”

“Ah, sorry.” Jeremy drew in a long breath. “Hey, could I walk today?” He asked. “Like, on my own.”

“I thought we agreed I'd give you a lift.”

Jeremy shrugged heavily. “Yeah, but like…” He trailed off.

His dad raised an eyebrow. “Don't want to seem lame?”

“No,” Jeremy let the word run long, rocking back slightly as he did. “I just want to walk.”

Mr. Heere rolled his eyes. “Sure, Kiddo.” He crossed the room to Jeremy’s bedside. “Text me when you get there alright?”

“Will do.”

Mr. Heere paused for a moment, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. “How am I doing with the parenting?” He asked, only half joking.

Jeremy gave him a thumbs up. “All good. How am I doing with the son-ing?”

Mr. Heere hummed, his head cocking ever-so-slightly to the side. “Well, ideally I'd like you to be off the computer and at the breakfast table.”

“I was just...emailing Michael.”

You͜'̴r̵e͝ ͏l̛ucky͝ y͜our͟ ͟father͟ is a̷ņ i̛d̡i̧o͡t.

“Oh? How is he?”

“Good, just wanted to wish me luck.” It wasn't _technically_ a lie. Jeremy knew for a fact that his phone was full of emails from a variety of people, including Michael. He just hadn’t checked them yet.

“Well, wrap it up quick, kiddo. Breakfast’s getting cold.”

“Yeah, I’ll just be a sec.”

Mr. Heere raised his hand in a mock-salute, leaving the door open as he left the room. Jeremy watched him leave, letting out a heavy sigh and opening his laptop once again. He closed one tab and opened another, checking his email for real this time.

Jake, Brooke, and Chloe had each sent near identical emails of _Good luck!_ With the only the number of kisses at the end to differentiate them. Jeremy had expected nothing less.

Rich had been slightly more detailed:

 _good luck today,_ tallass _! don’t let the SQUIP get ya down!_

Christine’s message was also more along these lines:

_Hey!_  
_Just wanted to wish you good luck. Hope day goes well. Call and talk about it later?_  
_Christine XxX_

And lastly, there was Michael.

_Hey Jer,_  
_Don’t fuck it up._  
_:D_

_(Also don’t forget MDR. We don’t want a repeat of Brooke’s birthday. :P)_

Jeremy rolled his eyes. You’re not gonna let me live that down, are you? He typed in reply, sending it with a sharp jab of the enter key. Giving long stretch he got to his feet, weaving his way through his minefield-of-a-bedroom. Most of his belongings were still encased within the confines of cardboard boxes, but he had made sure to lay out two items on his chest of drawers the night before: a hand mirror his mom had left behind when she moved out and a small eyedropper bottle. Jeremy picked up the mirror first, looking himself over.

You ̡look͠ tr͠ag̸ic.

“You keep saying that like it means something,” Jeremy mumbled, putting the mirror down and reaching for the bottle. Unlike the mirror, this item had been a willing gift--from Rich no less. It was a small vial the size of Jeremy’s middle finger, with mud-coloured glass that gave the red liquid kept within it a sludgy-brown color.

It had taken a month for Jeremy to build up the nerve to ask his friends if they could still hear their SQUIPs. Christine, Brooke, Chloe, and Jenna all gave him the same answer “No.”

“I can't either,” he’d lied, trying his best to smile despite the SQUIP’s laughter rattling around in his head. The only person to tell him anything different was Rich, who had simply gone quiet.

“I thought I wath the only one.”

Jeremy’s stomach had dropped like a stone and, again, Michael had been the one to sort things out.

The TL;DR of the situation was pretty bare bones: Mountain Dew Red shut the SQUIPs up, but only for a short time. Solution? Have Michael supply Jeremy and Rich with regular doses (which, of course, they would pay him for--much to Michael’s dismay). This method worked extremely well, for a time, however, getting enough discontinued soda for one person was hard enough, for two it was nearly impossible. And so Rich had come up with the eyedropper idea.

“We can split it between uth,” he’d suggested. “Thith way we don't run out ath fast.”

This idea had kept both their SQUIPs in check for a good few months, to the point where Jeremy had gotten the dosage down to a science: a drop-and-a-half for seven hours of complete silence.

Y̡o̧u͡ c͟an't̡ k̴e͠ep ͟b͠l͝o̕c̴king̶ ̢me out͠ f̵or҉eve͢ŗ, J҉e̶remy

The SQUIP’s voice snapped Jeremy back to reality. He sighed, sliding the eye-dropper into his jacket pocket. Usually, it took the SQUIP a good week after he took the Mountain Dew Red to get his voice back completely, restricting him to hoarse whispers and mumbling threats. However, for some reason this it had managed to come back at full strength after only a few days. Perhaps it was his nerves.

A͝ ͢n͡ȩw ҉s͝c̡ho͡ol̴ i̵s͠ a f̸resh ͠s̕tart, ͟t͟hȩ b̛e̶s̨t ̴t̛ime̕ f̶o̡r ̶m͏e to̢ get ͜y͜our͡ ̨r̵ep̷utat̢i̡o̵n͢ b͝ack͟ o͞n͝ ͜tra͡ck the SQUIP continued as Jeremy made his way to the kitchen. It͢’s͘ the͞ ̛p̷ęrfect tim҉e̴ ͜f͘o̧ŗ us ͟to̕ ̛cont̵inue͠ ҉y͜o̸ur upg̛rade҉!̢

“Mm,” Jeremy ignored the voice in favor of breakfast. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, a slight tickle running down his spine, a very muted attempt at a shock. He heard the SQUIP give a loud groan of annoyance and tried to hold back a smile.

Yo̸u̴ ͟h͜av͞e on̨e chan͠c̛e ̶a͟t ͟a̶n͘ ͝en͢tran̶c̨e,̕ Jeŗemy̷, we need ͡to ̶mak̷e su̧r̸e͢ i̷t'̨s ̛a̴ ̷g͞ood͘ o̶n̴e͠.

Jeremy shoved more food in his mouth, making a conscious effort to slouch and earning himself another not-shock. He watched his father bustling around the kitchen, sorting sandwiches into paper bags. It was still weird seeing him act fatherly.

H̢avi͜ng҉ y͞our ̶p̸ar̷e͝ņta̸l ͞unit͞ n̕ot̛ d̵ri͜vȩ yo͜u̡ is a̸ ͘star̶t͜,͡ ͡but̶ y̕ơu͏ ̵s͝ti͢ll need wo̴rk.̕ Jeremy could almost picture the SQUIP pacing back and forth as he spoke. You͡r ͜c͜l̷ot҉hįng,͜ f͠or ex͘am̡p͟l̡e-̵-͜

Jeremy narrowed his eyes and fought the urge to argue.

Y͠our ͟j̢ack̶et҉ l̵o͢ok҉s ridicu͠lou̸s! It is ̵al͟mos̛t͜ ͟nin̷et͠y̶ ͏degre̸e͞s ҉out̶si̢de͠,̧ yo͞u do̵ ͢n͢o͞t ͏nęed҉ ͠a sk͢i ̨j̶ack̵eţ

 _But I do_ , Jeremy clenched his jaw. He ran his fingers self-consciously across the back of his neck, wincing at the puckered feeling of the scars that lay there; the lightning-esk pattern of discolored flesh that spread downwards from the base of his skull to mid-way down his shoulder blades.

Christine had been the one to point it out to him, in the middle of their first date no less. She’d prodded the back of his neck midway through lunch, her brows knitted uneasily.

“Where’d you get that scar?” she’d asked, to which Jeremy dumbly replied:

“What scar?”

In all honesty, Jeremy had absolutely no idea where it had come from or what had caused it. It had been Michael who first told him about Lichtenberg figures--scars caused by a person being struck by lightning--and ideas and theories snowballed from there. Eventually, Jeremy managed to narrow it down to two possible causes; either the SQUIP had shocked him one-too-many times before being disconnected, or the process of disconnecting it had caused some weird surge of electricity within his body.  
  
Jeremy’s friends thought the scars were the best thing ever.

Brooke liked to swamp him with various tattoo designs that incorporated them: long, twisting bunches of roses, henna patterns, a large oak tree with a thousand tiny branches. Chloe and Jake liked to remind him that it made him look tough (“like a real badass!” Jake had declared). Rich liked to point at his own burn scars from the Halloween fiasco, grinning like an idiot and calling them “Scar-bros” (or “thar-bros” given his lisp). Christine liked to run her fingertips over them, tracing each twist and turn like a weird dot-to-dot.

Only Michael knew how much Jeremy hated his scars. Jeremy had no idea exactly how he knew as he hadn’t said so much as a word to him, but that didn't stop Michael turning up at his house one day with a high-necked jacket in tow. No questions, just a jacket. It was a little baggy, far far too hot and made Jeremy look like the stay-puff marshmallow man, but it did its job well enough. He just hoped none of the teachers made him take it off.

No͢ o͞n͠e̷ ̛w̛il͏l͢ care̵ ab̵out͜ ͜t̵hem͞, J̧e̸r̸e͝m͟y! Y͘ou̸'̧re be̶in̢g̷ s͟ţųp̨id̨. I̵n̕ju̴ri̸es͢ l̨ik̢e ̵t͟h͟e̢s̛e attr̕act͠ ̡att̶ent͘ion̕ a͘n͜d̨ ̷c͝o͢nv̸er͜sati͟on͏

 _Oh yeah?_ _And what am I meant to tell them?_ Jeremy snapped silently. _I took an over-glorified sci-fi tic-tac and now I look like a super villain. Yeah, that’ll really help my reputation._

I҉t a͞d͘ds̨ myste̵ry and ͜char̷a̢cte͟r

_So does a fucking jacket!_

I̡f̛ ̶it̡ w͢as black ̸peŗh̴ap̴s. Scar̴s ąllow̡s ͝y̡o̢ur peers ̵t͡o ̕fil̨l҉ ͠i͟n thȩ ̨blanks ̢t̢he̸m͏sel͝v̶e̵s ̕cr͢ȩat̴i̢ng either͢ r͜e͏sp̡e̶c͞t̡ ͏o͟r s̴ym͢pa̕t̵h̛y͜.̶ T̡he͘ ̡ja͟ck̕et jus҉t̷ ͝m̧a͞kes ̸you lo͢ok̶ pat̷h̶e͝ti͏c͜

Jeremy held his tongue and clenched his jaw so hard he felt like it would crack.

“You alright, Private?” Mr. Heere dropped Jeremy’s packed lunch on the kitchen table, his eyebrow raised. “You look constipated.”

Jeremy looked up from his breakfast, ignoring that SQUIP’s glitching laughter. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“It's not the eggs, is it? I was wondering if I’d overcooked them a bit.” He had but that was beside the point.

“They're fine, Dad,” Jeremy rubbed his fingers against his temples, the voices in his head were starting to make his brain hurt. “I’m just...feeling nervous I guess.”

Mr. Heere nodded. “I was starting to think you were.” The two stood and sat in silence for a moment before he continued, “I should get going now if I don't want to be late.”

Jeremy wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Yeah me too. Uh. Good luck?”

Mr. Heere made a face, running his fingers through what was left of his hair. “I think I'll need it,” he managed a smile, “good luck.”

Y͜ou’̕l̕l͢ n҉e̢ed̷ it̷.͝

\---

Westerberg High was only a fifteen-minute walk from the Heere residence, however, the 89-degree heat made it feel much longer. By the time he actually arrived Jeremy was coated in a thick layer of sweat, much to the SQUIP’s dismay.

“Are you okay?” Was the first thing the school receptionist asked him as he stumbled into the front office.

“Fine. Just hot,” he wheezed, fanning himself with his fingers. “I'm Jeremy Heere, I’m new.”

“Right.” She sighed looking him up and down. “H-e-e-r-e?” She clarified as she turned her attention to her computer,

“Yeah,” Jeremy smiled, ignoring the feeling of yet another failed attempt at a shock. In response, he put his hands firmly in his pockets, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue.

“Here.” The woman's voice snapped him out of his thought. She held out a small stack of papers. A map, his timetable, and his locker combination circled in red.

Jeremy quietly repeating the numbers in his head until them until he reached his locker, a task made far more difficult by the SQUIP’s constant interrupting of random numbers. Jeremy’s neck started itching again, though he wasn't sure if it was his scars acting up, his nerves or the SQUIP trying to distract him. If it was the latter then it was definitely working, as when he entered the code the first time the door simply rattled, the lock firmly in place.

Jeremy sighed, checked the paper, tried again.

The locker stayed shut.

“Oh come on,” he groaned, trying one last time. Jeremy entered the code slowly, taking great care to twist the dial to exactly the right number. He gave the door a quick tug but found it refused to budge. “Come on!” Jeremy banged his fist against the metal, wincing.

Do y͝ou ҉wan̸t͜ ̵my assisţance̡?

 _No, I'm fine_ , Jeremy spat silently. He glanced around the bustling hall, rubbing his hand. Taking a slow step forward Jeremy puffed out his chest, approaching one of the more weedy-looking students. “E-excuse me--oh.” The boy walked off. Jeremy sighed, rubbed his hands, tried again.

The next boy he asked clearly saw him, locking eyes with Jeremy for a good few seconds before turning away.

And y͘o̧u'͠re ͢sure y҉o̕u d҉o̢n't-͏-͡

 _Shut. Up_.

Out the corner of his eye, Jeremy spotted a girl with her back against the lockers, her head bowed. Unlike the other students, she seemed perfectly content with staying in place.  
  
Jeremy took a step forward and felt his neck prickle

F͟em̡ale ͟i͘n̶a̷cces͝s̸i͏ble̷.̵

It took all of Jeremy’s willpower not to scream.

_I can talk to girls without trying to date them._

That m͝a̴y b͡e ͢so̧,҉ J͘e҉rȩm͡y̛, b͏ųt she ̛is ̸o͘ut ҉of̶ ̴yo̧ur l̡ea͞g͠ue͟ ̶e͝v̢en̛ a̵s̛ a̷ ̢f͝r̶i̕end.͞ ͡

I'm just going to talk. Jeremy cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um. Excuse me?” He said.

The girl didn't look up.  
  
“Ack--um. Shit. Um. Hey?” He waved a hand in front of her face.  
  
Nothing.

S̴h̡e is ͢i͏g̢n͢orįng͢ ̶y̸ou,͝ ͘Jere̷my̡. I͠ s̸ugg̢est̶ ̕yo͝u̡ s҉e̛ęk̷ ̸a͟s͟si̶sta͘n̸ce f̨ro̴m s̸o҉m҉eone el͡s͜e̵ the SQUIP said matter-of-factly. Jeremy could hear the smug grin plastered across his face.

By ‘someone else’ you mean you, right?

Na̸tu͜ral͟ly.  
  
Jeremy raised his voice. “Excuse me! I'm having trouble with my locker and…ugh.” He gave up and tapped her shoulder.

“What?” The girl looked up suddenly, her eyes narrowed. She didn't look annoyed, more agitated than anything. Jeremy hoped that was a good sign.

“Um,” he squeaked, taking a step back from her, his shoulders around his ears. “I'm new here and I'm having…” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his locker. “...I can't get it open.”

\---

By the end of his first lesson, Jeremy realized he couldn't actually hear his teacher over the sounds of the SQUIP. This, he decided was not a good sign.

Instead of heading straight to his second-period class, Jeremy stopped off at the closest bathroom. He placed his bag by the sink, quickly checking that the stalls were empty before taking the bottle from his pocket.

Yo͜u͏ do̵n'̵t want t͏o d̕o̡ ̴t̨hat ̡J͏ere̵my.

 _Yeah, I do,_ Jeremy said wordlessly, unscrewing the cap. He squeezed a few drops of Mountain Dew Red into the eyedropper and felt the tickle of an attempted shock again. He couldn't help but smile, he loved it when the SQUIP got scared. Without so much as a second thought, Jeremy raised the dropper above his mouth, letting three drops hit his tongue.

And then the bathroom door opened.

A boy a little older than Jeremy burst through the door, shutting it swiftly behind him. He looked pale, his face contorted into an expression of pure panic. He locked eyes with Jeremy through the mirror, his look of fear turning to one of confusion.

Jeremy swallowed the Mountain Dew, listening to the SQUIP’s laughter fade away. “Um,” he said slowly. “I know this looks really fucking weird…” he didn't know what to say after that. What could he say? Hey yeah, I drink Mountain Dew out of an eyedropper to make the voices in my head stop. Yep, I'm totally sane!

Luckily for him, however, he didn't have to say anything as the boy rushed forward, knocking him out the way before promptly vomiting in the sink.

“Woah!” Jeremy took a step back, sliding the Mountain Dew back into his pocket. “You okay?”

“Fine!” The boy said quickly, rubbing a dark sludge from his lips with the back of his hand. “I'm fine.”

“You sure, do you need to go to the nurse or something?” Jeremy asked, one brow raised.

 _“I'mperfectlyfine_ ,” the boy garbled, turning on the tap. “Just...nervous.”

“You got a test or something?”

“Not quite...kinda? No?...It's hard to explain.”

“Okay...I guess...uh…” Jeremy felt his shoulders rise up around his ears, his back hunching slightly. “Not the weirdest thing you could be doing.”

“Yeah,” the boy cupped water into his mouth. “I mean I could be drinking s-stuff out an eyedropper...uh...that sounded mean, sorry.”

“It's fine, dude,” Jeremy shrugged. “I know it's weird.”

“Mm,” the boy nodded, rubbing his hand on his shirt before offering it out to Jeremy. “Hi, I'm-uh-Evan, please don't tell anyone I puked.”

Jeremy looked at his hand, checking for any traces of vomit before shaking it. “Jeremy Heere, please don't tell anyone I do homeopathy.”

Evan furrowed his brow. “Homo-what?”

“Homeopathy, it's an alternate form of medicine, kinda weird.” Jeremy wasn't exactly lying, Homeopathy was a real thing, it also just so happened to be the only thing he could think of that required the use of eye droppers. “Basically you stop symptoms by taking things that cause the symptoms in a diluted form. Most people think its dumb so...please don't tell?

“O-oh...uh...right…” Evan nodded, letting go of Jeremy’s hand to curl the hem of his shirt. “Uh...deal?”

“Deal.”

\---

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

Jeremy had to pull his phone away, wincing as Michael’s voice drilled against his ears. He fixed his phone screen with an apologetic look, leaning back against the fire exit he’d hidden behind. Everyone else was in the cafeteria, he was trying to make an emergency call.

“I needed shut it up and a senior just...saw me.”

“Why didn't you use a stall?” Michael asked and Jeremy could hear that fact that he was facepalming.

“Because--” he stopped, unable to think of a good enough reason.

“For Christ’s sake Jer--”

“He’s not going to tell anyone,” Jeremy cut in quickly. Michael took a deep breath like he was about to say something but another voice chimed in, just loud enough for Jeremy to here.

“Michael, wthat's going on?” Rich.

“Some guy just walked in on Jeremy drinking SQUIP-stuff.”

“He won't tell anyone,” Jeremy repeated, practically yelling so Rich could hear him. “He promised he wouldn't.”

“I thould,” Rich said bluntly, “if I was him that shit thould be general knowledge by lunch.”

“Exactly! Jeremy, Rich said--”

“I can hear what he said, Michael,” Jeremy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you just put me on speakerphone?”

“Alright.”

Jeremy stayed quiet until he was sure Rich would be able to hear him “Like I said, he’s not going to tell anyone, if he did I could just tell everyone he puked--”

“It's normal to puke in the bathroom, drinking shit out of an eye-dropper isn't,” Michael quipped.

“Don't interrupt,” Jeremy shot back before continuing. “And anyway, he could barely get a sentence out, I don't think he could tell anyone if he tried.”

“I guess it could have been worse,” Rich chimed in. “It's probably not the weirdest thing to happen in a school toilet--hell, _I've_ done weirder.”

Michael made a puking sound. “Dude, gross.”

“Hey, Madeline is not gross!”

Jeremy let out a breath, “yeah, I mean, worse comes to it people just think I'm weird and that's nothing new.” He turned away from the fire escape and started moving towards the cafeteria. “Is Christine around?”

“No,” Michael said. “Sorry, I'll tell her you called.”

“Don't worry about,” he sighed, “I’ll call her--don't say anything Rich.”

“You don't know what I thas going to say.”

“I have a strong theory,” Jeremy couldn't help but smile when he heard the other two laughing on the other end of the line. “I'll text you guys later.”

“See you later Jer.”

“Thee ya, Tallass.”

Jeremy hung up the phone and quickly scrolled up through his contacts until he found Christine’s number. She answered almost immediately.

“Hey!” Jeremy could hear her smile in her voice, her optimism was infectious.

“Hey,” he said, “how's New Jersey?”

“New Jersey is fine, it's still in one piece at least. How’s Ohio?”

“Hot.” He sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand and had to quickly wipe the sweat away on his jeans. “I'm pretty sure this state is actually going to fry my brain.”

“You better not be wearing that coat, you might actually die”

Jeremy’s cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment.

 _“Jeremy.”_ She sighed.

“I look good in it,” he answered quickly.

“I never said you didn’t, you look great in it in fact.”

Jeremy had a feeling that she was lying. He knew the coat looked ridiculous, the SQUIP reminded him often enough.

“Besides,” Christine continued “I'd rather you looked average and alive than good and dead.”

“You saying I look average?” Jeremy mocked offense, placing the back of his hand theatrically to his brow.

“No,” she laughed back, “I find you consistently adorable.”

“Aww,” Jeremy cooed, “thanks, Romeo.”

“What? You are.”

“I never said I wasn't.”

“Good, ‘cause you are.”

“You're cuter than me though,” he chimed, idly tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“Sure am!” There was a brief pause. “You can't see but I just made a really stupid pose and now people are staring at me like I just said the sky was orange.”

Jeremy laughed again, a dumb smiled plastered across his face. “I'm sure it was adorable.”

“It wasn't my best, to be honest.”

“It's was perfect.”

“You didn't see it.”

“Doesn't matter,” he stuck out his tongue. “You couldn't see that but I just stuck my tongue out at you.”

“It so _does_ matter.”

“Does not.”

“Does too”

“Does not!” He had just about reached the cafeteria doors. “Hey, can we finish this debate later? I've gotta go.”

Christine let out a small giggle. “It's not exactly a debate if I'm definitely right, but sure.”

“Cool,” Jeremy’s smile faltered slightly, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, but I'll see you tonight yeah?”

“Yeah definitely.” The two said their goodbyes and Jeremy ended the call. He sighed and put his phone back in the pocket of his stupid jacket and he pushed his way through to the cafeteria.


End file.
